heed, the prodigal daughter, the diabolical one
by my best enemy
Summary: -very methodical when i slaughter them- In which Quinn has an accident involving a beer bottle and a lot of blood, escapes Lima in a handicap van with the five most unlikely people possible, and discovers a 'sport' much more entertaining than cheerleading


**A/N:** Title is taken from Eminem's 3 A.M. (I just changed son to daughter)

This is set in an AU where Quinn never gets pregnant and none of them (besides Rachel) join glee club. I tried to retain most of the character's personalities from Season 1, because I think a lot of character development happened because of glee, but there are some things that are different, because three years is a long time and I didn't think they would still be the exact same people they were in the pilot. But as the story progresses I'll explain the relationships between the characters that might not be completely clear at this point (like the Puck/Artie friendship). If you have any questions about anything, just let me know. Also, this is the **prologue**.

.

May 2012

Puck is already rip-roaringly wasted by the time they arrive at the party, so wasted he's already making moves on her, pawing at her boobs while she navigates into a suitable parking spot across the street. Quinn turns off the car, tossing her keys in her purse, and slaps his hand, hard. "Not now." He pouts slightly (_so_ not attractive, Quinn can't stand it when he gets whiny), but shoves his hands into his jeans pockets and follows her across the road and up the gravel pathway.

The party, a school's-almost-over type event, is being held by some random senior football player, Aaron Pala-something, Quinn can't be fussed enough to care. It's already in full swing when she wrenches open the door, music spilling out (Starships by Nicki Minaj, so fucking mainstream), accompanied by the smell of sweat and smoke. Quinn wrinkles her nose. She's never liked these kinds of parties, but she has to attend them sometimes, to keep up appearances for the rest of the school, the way a queen would attend a boring ball for the sake of reasserting her relevance for the sake of her people. Well, that's the way Quinn likes to see it, at least sometimes. Sometimes she feels like a queen, the Queen of McKinley, more often than not she just feels imprisoned by rules that she's created herself. She has to drink, but she can't drink too much. She has to wear something pretty and a bit sexy, but it can't be too short or low-cut. She has to attend with a guy, but she can't do anything more sexual than light kissing with him. She has to be friendly to people, but she still has to reassert herself as Top Bitch. Basically, she has so straddle the line between Popular Girl and Good Christian. Lately, she finds herself longing to chop off her hair and rip up her papers and just fuck it all, but she knows she won't, and she'll never be able to. A queen can't just shirk her duties.

As she and Puck enter the house and make their way into the living room, they're greeted by various people. Some of them (fellow Cheerios, guys on the football team) Quinn greets back, but most of them she ignores, because she's not going to say hello to just any fucker who talks to her. Most people are dancing, anyway, Quinn immediately spots Mike and Tina, together, and marvels a bit at Mike's ability to shake his hips like fucking Michael Jackson and have his hands stuck up Tina's shirt at the same time.

She grabs Puck's sleeve and pulls him over into the kitchen. "Come on, baby, let's like, dance, or somethin'," he slurs.

Quinn rolls her eyes. "You can't fucking dance, Puckerman, not even when you're sober. And don't call me baby."

This just leads to more pouting and_ Jesus_, there's a reason she came here, and it wasn't to argue with her drunk not-boyfriend. She leans down and opens the door of the mini-fridge, peering around until she lays eyes on what she wants: a nice new bottle of Cabrito tequila. "Get two shot glasses," she orders Puck, grabbing the bottle and opening it with a twist. Puck just blinks at her, so Quinn, sighing, rummages around in the cabinets until she find two glasses and a half empty salt shaker. There's a shriveled lemon in the fruit bowl, not ideal, but good enough.

The two of them have about five shots each (Quinn make sure Puck's glass is barely half-full, because she is not cleaning up puke tonight), enough that her brain is pleasantly fuzzy and he's actually swaying on his feet, and then head out to the living room again, in search of Santana and Brittany.

"Hi, Quinn!" The too-cheery voice comes from behind her and she turns, slowly, already 100% positive whom it belongs to. Sure enough, it's Rachel motherfucking Berry, all bedecked in a ruffly plaid dress, bow in her hair, big white smile. Quinn feels Puck snicker next to her, and she can spot people laughing and pointing out of the corner of her eye.

"Rachel," she responds coolly, making to turn around, but the smaller girl reaches out and grasps her shoulder.

"Quinn, I just wanted to ask again if you maybe wanted to join our glee club? I mean maybe you changed your mind about it? Some back-up singers would be great and-"

"The answer's still fucking no", Quinn cuts her off. God, she's heard this speech at least fifty times since freshman year. She doesn't get Rachel's fucking obsession with her, not least because she's been as rude and horrible to her as possible. Besides, Quinn's queen crazy bitch of the school, and Rachel's just some loser who gets slushied every day. But the absolute worst part of it all is that Quinn doesn't even hate her. A small part of her actually is _fond_ of the geek, with her animal sweaters and 'I'm a big star attitude'. It's disgusting. Of course, no one knows and no one is ever going to, especially not Rachel herself.

"It's the end of senior year, Rachel. your precious glee club"-she sneers-"will be over in less than a month anyway. So why don't you just skip along out of here? Go to Scandals-you know, that's where all the trannies hang out." She gives Rachel a big bitchy smile. "Jesus loves you!" With that, she turns her back and, pulling Puck behind her, heads over to where she sees Brittany lying on the couch with Santana. The two of them are making out heavily, and Quinn doesn't need to smell the vodka on Santana to deduce her current alcohol level. A sober Santana wouldn't even hold hands with Britt, much less go all PDA in the middle of a party attended by practically the whole senior year.

Quinn sits down next to their smushed together heads and is about to flick Santana's ear, when she suddenly detaches herself from her girlfriend's mouth, stands up and _slaps_ Puck, full on, in-the-face slaps. Puck just stands there, a confused expression on his face. "Dude, what the fuuuck?"

Santana ignores him, though, and starts screaming in Spanish. Quinn can make out the words _pendejo _-asshole, and _mujeriego _-manwhore, as well as Brittany's name, several times. People are staring unashamedly. Puck continues to look shell shocked. Quinn decides to take action.

"Shut up, Santana," she hisses, grabbing her friend's arm. "Shut the fuck up and come upstairs. You're making a scene." She takes hold of Puck, too, who's so drunk he barely notices. "We're going upstairs. _Now._" Santana struggles and swears, but lets herself be hauled up the stairs, stumbling over her own feet a few times, and _fuck_,Quinn thinks disgustedly,is there anyone at this party who isn't wasted? Pushing both of them into the first room she sees, she slams the door shut and turns to face them. Puck is looking around the bedroom bleary-eyed, like he can't remember how he got there. Santana is rocking back and forth. There's a beer bottle in her hand that Quinn hadn't noticed before. Quinn squints, trying to calculate how much beer is left in it, when Santana suddenly jumps at Puck, holding the bottle out like a weapon, so quick that Quinn barely manages to catch her wrist before Santana tries to slam the bottle into his chest.

There's a pause and Quinn feels like giggling madly at the scene in front of her: Santana, her face contorted with fury, her arm held high, beer running over her arm and dripping onto the carpet, Puck, his mouth hanging open, arms not held up in defense, but hanging at his sides, and Quinn herself, hand clamped in a death grip around Santana's wrist.

But the slight pause ends, when Santana shrieks and charges at Puck again. This time Puck is smart enough to drunkenly dodge her. Quinn snatches the bottle out of her frenemy's hand. "Calm the fuck down, Santana, what the fuck is your problem?" She reaches out to take hold of Santana's shoulder or something, but the other girl twists away.

"Don't fucking touch me." Santana's breathing heavily, her make up running, stains on her Cheerio's uniform. Again, Quinn feels the need to laugh, but she swallows it and asks instead: "What the fuck happened, San? What did he do?"

"He-" Santana takes a deep breath. "He slept with her. With Britt. She told me, just an hour ago." She turns toward Puck and Quinn grabs her upper arm again, just to be safe. "How could you, you _fucktard_? How _could_ you? I'm going to break your fucking arm, you know, that's how we do it in Lima Heights Adjacent, you _know_ it!" She shakes her arm out, but Quinn doesn't let go. "You'll never take advantage of my girl again, you'll never _fuck_ any girl again, you wait and see!" There are tears streaming down her face and she switches back to Spanish, screaming what just sounds like every insult she's every heard.

Quinn exhales slowly, feeling more irritated with Santana than with Puck. Santana and Brittany's 'relationship' problems are not exactly a big fucking concern of hers."Is this shit true, Puck?"

He at least has the audacity to look guilty. "Duuude, I didn't know they were, like, serious. Besides, it's not like she didn't want a ride on the Puckasaurus, if you know what I mean."

"_Shithead_!" Santana shrieks and Quinn's head _hurts_ and Santana is such a fucking _drama queen_ and Puck can be such an _asshole_ and she can't help herself.

"Shut up, Santana! Just shut the fuck up! No one cares, don't you get it?! No one gives a fuck!"

Santana swings around to face her, mascara all down her cheeks and beer stains on her uniform. She narrows her eyes maliciously at Quinn. "And you think people give a fuck about you? You think you're queen of everybody's hearts?You, Quinn? Miss God-Loves-Me? Miss Perfect-Virgin-Bitch? Miss Chastity-Queen who prays every day? You think people actually believe all that shit? Here's some news for you!" She sticks her face right up into Quinn's and laughs hysterically. Quinn smells beer, vodka and strawberry chapstick, undoubtedly Brittany's. "Everyone knows! Everyone knows what a whore you are! We all know! We know you've fucked _him,_" she jerks her head at Puck, who is watching the scene with wide eyes "we know you fucked Sam, we know you even fucked Finn 'Manboobs' Hudson! You're not just a slut, Quinn, hell, that wouldn't even be so bad, no you're not just a slut, you're a _liar_!" She smiles at Quinn, showing all her teeth, like a shark. "And we all know who _else_ you're fucking, care to share with the class?"

The next few seconds go by so quickly Quinn doesn't even realize it happened until it's already over. One moment she's staring open-mouthed at her best-worst friend, thinking of a way, any way, some way to make her _shutupshutupshutupshutup_, the next moment she's slamming the beer bottle down onto Santana's skull with all her strength and Santana is crumpling and collapsing and hitting the side of her head onto the edge of the bed with a horrible sounding _crack_! and Quinn is standing there feeling something like-like _power_.

"Oh, shit. Shit. Shit, shit, shit, Santana! Santana, wake up, wake the fuck up, _Santana_!" Puck's voice is helpless and young and _different_. There is no laughter, no confidence, not even pent-up anger, just an unbelieving desperation. He's kneeling next to Santana, drunken fingers clumsily searching around for a pulse on her neck. There's blood's dripping onto his fingers, spreading out onto the carpet, splattered on the edge of the bed and over the blankets and on Santana's uniform. Bloody shards of glass are on the floor and tangled in Santana's dark hair. Quinn swallows and looks at the shattered beer bottle she's holding.

"Fuck, Quinn, fuck, she's doesn't have a - fuck, check for her pulse, Quinn, call an-an ambulance, shit, I don't know, shit-"

"It's too late." Quinn's dropped to her knees as well. Her brain feels hazy and emotionless. She trails her fingers over Santana's wrist once again, but still, nothing. She looks at her friend's face. Most of it's covered in blood from the wounds on her head, but her eyes can still be seen. They're wide open. Quinn reaches over and shuts them, like you see people do in the movies.

She looks up and spots Puck, trying to drunkenly unlock his phone. "You killed her," he says, not looking at her, his voice cracking. "You fucking killed her, Quinn. We gotta call an ambulance, man, or the police or somethin', I don't know."

"_No_!" Quinn's scream is so hoarse and desperate it even shocks her for a second. "No, Puck, no, you can't, you can't call them, they'll put me in jail, they'll put both of us in jail, you _can't!_" She reaches for the phone, Puck, trying to keep it out of her grasp, moves his hand away and drops it, where it slides under the bed.

Pucks looks disoriented for a moment, reminding Quinn how royally wasted he is, which give her a second to think. Her brain calculates madly: there are fingerprints on Santana's uniform, on her skin, on the beer bottle, people at the party saw them arguing and saw them go upstairs, maybe even heard them screaming at each other, their rocky relationship is known at school given to their popularity, there's little chance they can pass it off as an accident, no one accidentally hits someone over the head with a beer bottle, besides, Puck might let something slip, she'll be charged with manslaughter, maybe even murder, she'll be sent to jail, they need to _run_.

"Help me," she says to Puck. "Help me, we need to hide her, we need to buy ourselves time, we need to turn over the carpet and pick up the glass, we need to _hurry_."

He just gapes at her and she wants to _scream_, why doesn't he understand, they need to _go_. "Come on, Puck, we have to get to the car, we have to leave, they'll send me to jail, come _on_, you have to come with me."

"But," Puck's expression is so confused, like a little boy. "but I need my stuff. My guitar, my yarmulke, my AC/DC t-shirt.."

"You don't need all that shit!" Quinn yells. "Grow the fuck up!"

They stand there for a second, the music from downstairs continuing its steady _thump thump thump_, ringing in her ears.

Then the door is thrown open and Quinn's heart almost leaps out of her chest - _ohnoohnoohnowhatshouldwesayw hatshouldwedoohshit_ - and Mike and Tina come stumbling in, laughing, Tina's shirt already in Mike's hand. There is a terrible moment where Quinn watches their faces as they take in the situation: Santana's body, blood everywhere, Puck and Quinn standing there helplessly, glass shards on the carpet.

"Q-quinn?" Tina's voice trembles slightly. "W-what happened?"

Quinn licks her lips. "It was an accident." _It felt so good_. "I didn't mean to." _You want to do it again_. "I swear." _It was the most amazing experience you've ever had._ "I swear, I didn't mean to."

Tina opens her mouth again and Quinn is almost sure she's going to react like Puck did, with the police and an ambulance, but instead she says: "Is she dead? Are you running?" and Quinn remembers, they've _talked _about this before.

"She's not breathing. We checked her pulse. Will you-will you help us?" She knows Tina will, of course, but what about Mike, quiet Mike, what will he do, will they have to-_no_! _No_.

Tina crosses her arms in front of her black lace bra. "We'll come with you." She seems a bit unsure, a bit shocked, but lifts her head up. "We will. Right, Mike?"

Mike looks nervous. "I-I'm not sure, I don't..."

Gritting her teeth, Quinn looks him directly in the eyes. "You may be able to pretend to your parents, Mike, but we know, I know, that you don't want to go Harvard." She smiles, a bit maliciously. "I know you don't want to be a _doctor_." She takes a step closer to him. "Just like Tina doesn't really want to go to University of Chicago, and I don't want to go to Delta State on a _cheerleading_ scholarship." She spits the last two words. "And Puck doesn't want to be stuck in Lima cleaning pools for the rest of his life. There's nothing here for us Mike, there's no happy future, nothing. This is your escape exit. Are you in?"

He swallows. "Okay."

"Good." Quinn says. "Good." There's a tingle in her chest, something like anticipation, something like excitement, and she shouldn't be feeling _excitement_, she just killed her best friend, for God's sake, but she can't help it. "First of all we need time, which means we need to hide the body, we need to clean this place up a bit, pick up the glass -"

"What about my mom?" Puck's voice startles her, but she regains her composure quickly.

"What about her? Puck, I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do, you can't tell her anything! Don't you _understand_? We're criminals!"

"_Y-you're_ a criminal."

Quinn fixes him with a cold, hard stare. "If you come with us, you're a criminal, too. Now _help_."

He does, to her embarrassingly huge relief. They set to work silently. Mike locks the door, Tina pulls her lace shirt back on and gathers up the glass shards, Puck and Quinn turn over the carpet and the blankets, hiding the blood stains. Mike, his face completely blank, is the one to pick up Santana's body, which seems absurdly small and broken in his arms. Her head lolls back, giving them all a clear view of her partially caved in skull. Tina looks sick. Mike places her in the bed, turning her so her wounds can't be seen and pulling the covers up to her chin. With dim lights it might looks like she's sleeping, but it's too risky for Quinn.

"Can't we just stuff her in the closet or something?" she says irritably.

All three of them turn to stare at her, their expressions horrified and disgusted, and Quinn realizes her faux-pas. "Um, never mind. Just-just keep her like that."

Once the room has been made as clean and un-murder-scene-like as possible, they turn off the lights and tiptoe out and across the hall to the bathroom, closing the door behind them. Quinn does _not_ look at Santana's body one last time.

As they all wash their hands, Quinn outlines what happened to Mike and Tina, omitting why, exactly, she felt the need to smash Santana's skull in with a bottle. Tina reapplies her eyeliner and lipstick with shaking fingers.

"Okay," Quinn says, buttoning her sweater to hide her bloodstained blouse. "We need to leave as soon as possible. Everyone needs to go home a pack a bag, quickly, without waking anyone up, or telling anyone. _Anyone at all_. Bring as much money as you have. Then we meet at Tina's house. We can take my car."

"Wait!" Tina suddenly looks panicked. "Wait, what about Brittany? She'll be waiting for Sa- for her, how will she get home?"

This should be the moment that Quinn feels guilty, that she feels sick, that she starts to hate herself - sweet, innocent Brittany, kind to all, alone in this world now, just because Quinn couldn't control her temper. But she doesn't, she doesn't feel guilty, just impatient, to get moving to get on the road, to leave, leave Lima

"I'll take her, okay?" she snaps. "I'll drive her home, I'll make sure she's fine." Tina nods.

For a few seconds they are all at loss for words. They stare at each other, a silent pact forming. They are the ones who know, the ones who witnessed, the ones who now will have to keep their mouths shut. They will stick together. They will run.

.

The party is still going strong when Quinn comes downstairs, everyone twice as drunk as before, some lying passed out in various corners. Through the patio doors she can see a bunch of stoners in the hot tub, someone peeing on the white fence, someone, whether boy and girl, she can't tell, giving someone else a blow job. Oh, how she _loves_ these disgusting, juvenile parties. She feels sorry for Aaron-whatever, who will have to clean up the mess tomorrow. But she feels even sorrier for whoever goes into the main bedroom first, and find the grisly little 'surprise'. She can't help but let a giggle escape her lips at that thought. What is _wrong_ with her?

Brittany's still on the couch, but she's fallen asleep. There is a couple making out next to her, but they untangle themselves and leave when Quinn gives them the evil eye. Quinn shakes Brittany's arm. "Wake up, Britt. I'm going to take you home."

"Are you my fairy godmother?" Brittany yawns and stretches. "Or just Santana?"

Quinn bites her lip. "No, it's me, Quinn. We're going home."

Rubbing her eyes, Brittany asks: "But where's Santana? I want to tell her about this dream I had where I was an elephant and she was a monkey and we were-"

"Britt, Santana already left." The lie slips easily past her lips - why shouldn't it, she's been a compulsive liar for the past fours years. "She was really tired, just like you, and she told me to tell you that she's sleeping, so don't call her or else you might wake her up."

"Okay." Brittany's eyes are wide and trusting. "It's probably because I'm wearing strawberry Lipsmackers and she tasted it when we were having our sweet lady kisses. Strawberry makes you sleepy. Will I see her tomorrow?"

"Of course you will. But first you should just go to bed. Come on, I'll drive you home." Brittany sits up obligingly and lets Quinn pull her to her feet. Quinn keeps her arm wrapped around her waist until they've reached the door and walked across the street.

It's strange, standing in front of her car again, searching for her keys. Only a couple of hours ago she had been in the exact same spot (albeit locking the door, not opening it). Only a couple of hours ago she had been Lucy Quinn Fabray, cheerleader, mean-girl, former fattie and not-so-devout Christian. Now she's a murderer and (soon) a wanted criminal. But if she's honest with her herself (she has to be honest with _someone_), she doesn't mind the change. Not at all.

Brittany sleeps on the drive to her house and lets Quinn unlock her front door, half-drag her to her bedroom and tuck her in. She looks about as naive and harmless as she really is, Lord Tubbington curled up underneath her arm, her nightlight shining a dim pink. Quinn bends down to kiss her head, but can't bring herself to, and simply tiptoes out of the house and gets in her car.

Her house is mercifully empty when she arrives, her dad having long moved out and her mom probably out drinking, as usual. Quinn packs her toothbrush, hairbrush, some clothing and underwear in a duffel bag, then retrieves the thousand dollars in cash she knows her mother has hidden in her closet, under her pile of cashmere sweaters. They can stop at an ATM first thing before leaving Lima and she can get the rest of her money from her bank account. She surveys her room for anything she might have missed but there's nothing else that seems particularly important. Photos line the walls, of her and Santana and Brittany, of the cheerleading team, of her and Coach Sylvester. In every one she's wearing her Cheerios uniform, hair in a shiny ponytail, smiling brightly. Quinn looks at her happy, proud face, recognizing nothing, and again marvels at the way a single event can change everything familiar about you.

Before she leaves the house, she takes a detour to the kitchen and takes the three biggest, sharpest knives she can find, wraps them in towels and stuffs them in her bag. _Better safe than sorry_. A gun would be best, but she doesn't have one. Maybe Puck does.

She's closing the door and locking it, when she is startled by a tap on her shoulder and a voice she's heard one time too often tonight saying. "Hello, Quinn!" She jumps about a mile and then whirls around to face Rachel. "What the fuck are you doing here, Rachel? How do you even know where I live?"

Rachel smiles. "Oh, I've known since ninth grade. I have a fantastic sense of direction, something that will come undoubtedly come in handy when I move to New York. I've already been studying street maps and subway plans and I know how to get to Broadway from-"

"I don't really give a fuck." Quinn smiles back coldly. "What do you want?"

Seemingly unperturbed, Rachel pulls something out of the pocket of her embroidered jacket. "You lost your cellphone at Aaron Palazokulis' party and I thought it would be helpful if I returned it to you tonight."

Quinn frowns. Hadn't her phone been in her purse the whole time? Maybe she dropped it while cleaning up the bedroom? This leads her to a horrible thought. "Where exactly did you find it?"

"Downstairs in the living room." Rachel says brightly and Quinn exhales. Thank God.

Rachel is blabbering on about rescuing the cellphone from the floor and how Patti Lupone once lost her purse on a train, whatever _that_ has to do with _anything_, when she suddenly stops and, pointing at Quinn's duffel bag, says: "Are you going somewhere?"

_Shit_. Quinn frantically thinks of an excuse. Rachel might be annoying and conceited, but she is not an idiot and Quinn doesn't think that a simple lie will do. And, to be honest, Quinn just doesn't feel like hastily making up some story with a few half-truths here and there that will most likely require her to remember it all at some point and- and - and, okay, she just doesn't want to lie to Rachel.

So she simply tells the truth, the simple truth. "I'm leaving Lima." And the next part slips out entirely involuntarily, entirely on its own, for absolutely no reason at all: "Want to come?"

.

Rachel talks the whole way to Tina's house: about her perfect GPA, about how it's her destiny to play Christine in Phantom of the Opera, about how _fun_ this road trip is going to be, but they'll be back by Monday, right, because she _can't_ miss any school, even if it's the end of the year. Quinn wonders if Rachel is really crazy, not crazy in an OCD, narcissistic personality disorder kind of way, but flat out insane asylum, straightjacket crazy, because, really, who agrees to go on a spontaneous road trip with a bunch of people she barely knows, some of who have been tormenting her for years, without telling her parents and without packing anything at all, not even a toothbrush? Not to mention the fact that Quinn has told her nothing about this 'road trip' at all - not when, where, how or why. This is due to the fact that a, Quinn has no answer to any of these questions herself, b, Rachel is much more pleasant when she's just mindlessly blathering and not asking questions, and c, it's not a fucking road trip, it's a bunch of teenagers escaping from the law after one of them murdered her fellow cheerleader with a Budweiser bottle.

And if the whole situation wasn't fucked up enough, it goes straight from the frying pan into the fiery depths of hell when Quinn pulls into Tina's driveway. Her little gang of criminals is standing out in front as planned, all holding backpacks and bags, Puck smoking. But, low and behold, they now have a fifth member (not counting Rachel, of course): Artie Abrams, also known as Cripple McCripplepants (Santana's nickname, not Quinn's - God loves all his children), also known as Puck's Best Bro (unlikely, but true) is seated in his wheelchair, the one with the fucking glow-in-the-dark wheels, humming to himself and looking totally chilled. Quinn sighs so loudly even Rachel stops talking.

"Stay in the car." She holds out her hand and Rachel says "Okay!" in a bright voice that's more than a little scary.

Quinn gets out and shuts the door (quietly, she would prefer slamming it, but she doesn't want to risk waking up some angry neighbour at three in the morning). She walks up to Puck, nodding at Mike and Tina, smiling tightly at Artie, takes hold of his arm and says: "We need to talk."

As she pulls him to a spot in Tina's front yard that's too far away for the others to hear them, she can't stop the steady stream of curses and reprimands coming from her mouth: "Are you an idiot? Oh, don't answer that, I know you are, you're a fucking idiot, that's what, Puckerman. What the fuck is he doing here? He's handicapped! He can't walk! He can't even sit in the fucking car! Are we supposed to carry him around? We're! on! the! run!" She emphasizes this point by stabbing him in the chest with her finger after every word. Puck looks suitably shocked, though he shouldn't really, not after he's seen the shit she's capable of. "You told him everything didn't you? Every little last damn thing, god fucking dammit, how stupid can you be? He's going to get us nowhere, we might as well just give it all up and stay here, what happened to telling no one, huh, what happened to that?"

She pauses to catch her breath, and Puck jumps in. "I couldn't just leave him here in Lima, Quinn, I'm all he's got! He's my man! And we even brought his special cripple van, it's all gonna be good. Artie's cool."

"Oh, his special van, huh? Jesus Christ, Puck, did you ever think that we might have to switch cars? That there's something called plate recognition? Where are we supposed to find another 'cripple van', Puck? He's not going to fit in anywhere! How could you be so stupid?"

Puck opens his mouth to protest against these accusations, but Quinn continues before he has a chance to speak, hurling every insult she can think of. It's not that she has a problem with Artie, per say, to be honest, she's never really spared him much thought, it's that she's made up her mind about leaving Lima, and she'll be damned if a seventeen year old crippled boy with thick glasses and a green sweater vest is the one stopping her.

But right in the middle of her tirade, Puck does the unthinkable: he starts grinning, like the drunken asshole he is. Quinn stops abruptly. "What?" she snaps.

He says nothing, just continues smiling stupidly, staring at something behind her-and, yes, she should've known. It's Rachel, of course, in the process of closing the car door behind her. Quinn notices Mike and Tina staring at her with slightly disgusted expressions on their faces.

"So, Quinn, lemme get this shit straight: Artie, who's like a fucking genius on wheels, can't come with us, but _she_ can? Dude, she's like-she's like-." Puck is apparently at loss for words as to describe what exactly Rachel is. "She's like a huge fucking loudmouth geek."

It's not that Quinn doesn't agree with this statement, but that's not all Rachel is, right? And she already asked her- and, yeah, she wants Rachel to come, okay? "Fine, Puck, fine, whatever, Artie can come, just-just don't tell Rachel about the-you know-_she thinks we're going on a road trip_!"

"Dude, do you like _like_ her or some shit?" Puck looks horrified.

"No!" hisses Quinn. "I had to take her, it was unavoidable, I'll explain later. Look, Artie can come, okay! We'll take the handicap van!" _Just don't ask me about her,_ she pleads silently.

"Hello, Noah!" Rachel's reached them, and, yes, she's still smiling. "How nice that you're joining us as well!" Puck just gapes. Quinn can practically see the wheels in his brain turning, calculating the last time he threw a slushie at her. Not too long ago, apparently.

There is a strange silence, awkward to Puck and Quinn, but not to Rachel, who appears to be oblivious. Quinn breaks it by clearing her throat impatiently. "Um, let's just...go. We'll all fit in Artie's van, right?" _Let's just get the fuck out of here! _she feels like screaming, but, of course, she has to stay cool. It occurs to her that she's become their leader, sort of. But this is to expected, it was her fault, her crime, her idea to flee.

She sets off back to Tina's driveway, Puck and Rachel tailing behind. "Okay," she says in an authoritative voice when she reaches the others, whom Rachel greets smilingly. Artie gives Rachel a wave, Tina curls her lip, crosses her arms and looks at Quinn with a what-the-fuck expression, and Mike just leaves his face blank, like it's been almost the whole time. "We're taking Artie's van, it's the only one that will fit all of us, and I think we need to leave now, because-" She stops suddenly, having meant to say that Santana's body might've been discovered already - but she can't say that in front of Rachel, can she? Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Puck whisper something in Artie's ear, put a finger to his lips, and then fist bump with him, and she's grateful that he has at least enough common sense to warn Artie about Rachel's ignorance of this particularly delicate subject.

"Because of what, Quinn?" Tina's voice is unusually nasty and sharp, like she's been chewing shattered glass. "Come on, answer the question. Actually, wait, I have some more for you. Like, for example, why is-"

"Tina!" Quinn cuts in sharply, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. "_Trust me_."

The weight of this phrase and what, exactly, it means to the two of them, seems to descend upon Tina in a flash, and she closes her mouth abruptly and presses her lips together, a thin red line. Quinn looks directly at her and, sure enough, Tina remembers it all, everything, the whole conversation that's been hanging like fog in the back of Quinn's mind ever since it happened. She waits for Tina to say something else, but she just gives Quinn a we'll-talk-later look and picks up her black plaid backpack.

Trying to be as quick and quiet as possible, the five of them help Artie into the van and stuff their various duffels and bags into the trunk. Mike is the only one who looks weirded out at Rachel's lack of luggage of any kind, even a purse. Puck still hasn't worn off his alcohol and almost trips over his own feet a few times. Artie is quiet and calm, Rachel crazily chipper, Quinn is torn between giddiness and restlessness, Tina just seems angry. The air seems to crackle with energy and every sound of a car passing nearby makes Quinn jump and anticipate the police squealing around the corner to arrest and imprisone her. To calm herself down, she pictures the party, everyone sleeping by now..sleeping..or having sex..in a bed...where the corpse of one of her best friends is currently tucked in...shit.

Surprisingly, Rachel volunteers to drive, a fact which everyone is noticeably grateful for, even eliciting a small "thanks" from Tina. Quinn rides shotgun, while the others slide into the narrow back seat, Tina squeezed uncomfortably in between the two boys, who both seem to pass out immediately after Rachel pulls out of the driveway. The streets of Lima are dark and quiet, the only sounds that can be heard are the few cars still out at this time of night, and the humming of crickets. Quinn rolls down the window, letting the sweet smelling late-April air drift in. For a few minutes, they're all silent. Artie has headphones on and Tina's head is on Mike's shoulder.

"So," says Rachel finally. "Where exactly are we intending on driving to? West, towards Indiana, or perhaps south to Kentucky? Wait, I know - we must go to New York, Anything Goes! is currently playing and-"

"Rachel," Quinn says. "Just drive fast and get us out of Ohio. And we're not going to New York." She expects protests, but Rachel shuts up and steps on the gas. The light breeze wafting through the window turns into a wind, ruffling their hair. Quinn feels a peculiar tug at her neck and looks down. It's her necklace, her little golden cross, the one she's had since her first communion. If she squints, she can almost imagine bloodstains on it, tarnishing the shiny surface. On an impulse, she closes her hand around the cross, rips it off her neck and tosses it out the window. She can see Tina watching her in the rearview mirror, a knowing expression on her face.

"What was that?" Rachel asks curiously.

Quinn shakes her head. "Nothing I need anymore."

There's another long silence. They've almost reached the highway. Rachel drives faster than Quinn would've have expected, but slows down a little bit once they pass the 7-11. "I hope you won't mind if I try to stick to the speed limit. It's unlikely, but possible that the police will be tracking the roads nearby and I really can't have a speeding ticket or any other kind of trouble with the law, in case-"

But she's cut off by Quinn's laughter, long and harsh and hysterical, like broken bottles and choking on blood. She doesn't stop until her throat is sore and tears are streaming down her face.

.

**A/N:** So, as I said before, if it's confusing in any way, just tell me. Also, reviews would be greatly appreciated, especially if you favorited or followed.


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